


Behavior Management

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Series: Kid Fic 'Verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras and Grantaire are kinda assholes, Established Relationship, Grantaire pov, Kid Fic, M/M, Parent-Teacher Conference AU, because that's how i roll, but Sharon kinda deserves it, kind of, sharon POV, the kid exists but never appears, third-person limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Sharon wonders if she should revel in it—a whole eight minutes to collect her thoughts and relax in silence with her melted double-whip double-caramel frappuccino—or dread the parents yet to come and the interminable ticking of the clock. Her eyes fall upon the list; there can’t be too many left, maybe her last few will be quick and quiet. Her finger trails down the schedule: finished, finished, finished…Ah. Marie’s parents.Dread it is.Warning:fleeting mention of alcohol/drugs (no use)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Kid Fic 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665130
Comments: 32
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for beta-reading and being my fandom life partner!

Sharon keeps the smile on her face until the parents are out of the room. As soon as she hears the door click shut, she collapses indecently back into her seat and looks at her watch. Eight minutes until the next set of parents are expected for their conference. It’s almost unheard of. She wonders if she should revel in it—a whole eight minutes to collect her thoughts and relax in silence with her melted double-whip double-caramel frappuccino—or dread the parents yet to come and the interminable ticking of the clock. Her eyes fall upon the list; there can’t be too many left, maybe her last few will be quick and quiet. Her finger trails down the schedule: finished, finished, finished…

Ah. Marie’s parents. 

_Dread it is._

Fortunately, fate has seen fit not to give her time to stress over the meeting as the door swings open, revealing a man she presumes is Marie’s father.

“Miss Laine? Sorry, the form said to be ready to meet five minutes early. I saw the other parents and figured I might as well swing in—unless you’re busy?”

“No, no, please, have a seat,” she responds, gesturing to the chairs across from her and doing her best to sound chipper after having spoken with fifteen other parents already today.

Polite as the man’s words are, every assumption she has ever made about Marie’s father feels confirmed as he saunters across the classroom, plate piled high with confections and dreadlocks swinging low at his waist.

“I’m so glad that you were able to meet me today,” Sharon begins once he is seated. “You must be—”

“Marie’s dad, yep,” he says, settling his plate on the desk and grabbing one of the cookies that Laurie had made the night before. “But can we possibly hold off on starting until my husband gets here? He’s running a bit late from work.”

“Of course,” she responds, smile plastered across her face as she tries not to roll her eyes. Given Marie’s tendency toward disruptive behavior in- and outside of class, it comes as no surprise that one of her parents would have so little regard for his daughter’s parent-teacher conference. 

“Great, thanks.” Reaching up to adjust his beanie, he takes an absolutely massive bite of cookie, scattering crumbs all over stray dreads and the tank top he wears under a paint-spattered flannel.

Upon seeing the shirt Sharon barely contains the urge to spit up her coffee. “Sir,” she sputters, “I understand that the school is closed today, but there are still children on the premises.”

“Hmm?” Marie’s dad hums around a mouthful of cookie as he follows her line of view down to his shirt, which loudly proclaims ‘FUCK THE POLICE.’ “Oh, no, wait, I’ve got this.” Covering his mouth with one hand, he uses the other to reach for something out of sight. Moments later, the offensive word is covered by a piece of duct tape that reads ‘QUESTION THE AUTHORITY OF’ in two rows of blocky capital letters. Motioning to the adjustment, a toothy grin takes its place across his face, as though expecting her to be impressed. “Yeah?”

She is not. “It certainly encourages critical thinking.”

“‘Encourages critical thinking,’” he repeats, jabbing a finger for each word. “Exactly what we do in our household. Brownie?”

She wordlessly declines as the door opens.

Whatever she had expected from Marie’s other father, this is not it: the man is clean-shaven and well-groomed, wearing a three-piece charcoal suit and a navy tie. He strides brusquely across the room with purpose, leaning down to give the man currently sitting across from Sharon a quick peck on the cheek before one-handedly unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking the other seat. “So sorry I’m late, traffic from the office was terrible.”

“It’s certainly no problem,” Sharon responds, nearly recovered from the dramatic entrance. “I’m sorry, Marie’s never said: where do you work?”

“I’m a partner in ECC Legal Office. Down on 18th and 32nd.” He doesn’t look at Sharon as he answers, instead picking up and examining the first man’s hand with gentle fascination. “Blue glitter? I like it.”

“Marie chose it,” the dreadlocked man proudly informs him. “She said it makes my eyes pop.” Withdrawing his hand, he demonstrates the veracity of the claim. 

It does indeed. 

He holds the hand back out in front of him to examine. “She’s improved a lot from when she first started, hasn’t she?”

The man in the suit smiles. “She certainly has. She’ll have to do mine tonight.” 

They turn to her as one, the blond father’s face dropping all of its softness as he does while the dreadlocked man reaches for another snack.

Sharon clears her throat. “I’m so glad both of you could make it today, thank you. It really means a lot to me to have the two most important people in Marie’s life here to discuss her performance in class.”

They nod.

“As I'm sure you have guessed by now, I’m Sharon Laine, Miss Marie’s third grade teacher.”

“Enjolras,” the blond states flatly as he holds out a hand, “and I'm perfectly aware of who you are.”

Sharon shakes the proffered limb ineffectually as the other man salutes lazily with two fingers and a cocky grin. “R. Like the letter.”

Withdrawing from the icy formality to copy down their names (as if she needs to—this is clearly going to be memorable), Sharon speaks again. “Now, if I may ask, what does Marie call you at home?”

“I’m ‘Dad,’” volunteers R with a raise his hand.

“And I’m ‘Papa,’” Enjolras adds seriously.

Cupping his fingers around his mouth, R stage-whispers cheekily, “He won the coin toss.” 

“I see.” The information is jotted down with what Sharon hopes appears to be impartiality. R is basically exactly what she’d expected from Marie’s parents, but as firm and harsh as Enjolras’s mannerisms seem, it comes as a surprise to her that Marie is the free spirit that she is. Perhaps Enjolras works all day and isn’t home to assist with proper parenting?

The answer quickly becomes very clear.

“I have collected photocopies of all of the letters you have sent home with Marie since she joined your class ten weeks ago,” Enjolras begins, pulling a folder out of a briefcase she must have missed him carrying in. “I trust that you have your own original copies to refer to?”

“I do,” she saccharinely smiles. It wouldn’t be the first time that a parent has tried to get self-righteous over her classroom management, and documentation has backed her up against these displays more than once in the past. Finding Marie’s accordion binder where it’d been set out that morning is the work of a moment.

R swallows something noisily as she tabs through the dividers. “Do all of the kids have binders that big?”

“They do! We have a lot of documentation to collect throughout the year, and I prefer to categorize it by student,” she explains brightly. “It gives me a better picture of the whole child.”

“Ah. When I was in high school the secretary told me that they couldn’t find any folders big enough for me anymore. Just gave me a box and called it a day.” He pops a pretzel into his mouth, and Sharon tries not to narrow her eyes at it or the teller of the utterly unsurprising anecdote. “He let me decorate it though—lots of wait time in the office, don’t know if you were aware. I like to think that that time waiting for Ms. Simplice was what got me started on my career as an artist.”

She’s really trying to summon an emotion that won’t feel painted on her face, and it’s not coming. “Inspirational,” she responds at last. Grabbing her coffee in a bid to buy herself some time, she manages to mildly regain her bearings before Enjolras comes for her livelihood.

“I mean, that and the drugs,” continues R blithely.

The second half of her sip is inhaled, making her cough. She manages to get her elbow up in front of her face in time to catch the coffee before it sprays over her documents.

As her coughing dies down, she meets eyes with Enjolras who stares impassively at her. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It takes another several seconds for her to compose herself before straightening the stack of papers with a nod—and it is a stack: she’s had to send no fewer than two notes home with Marie every week since school began. Sharon nods once to Enjolras, signaling that she’s prepared.

“Miss Laine—"

“Babe,” R interrupts, tapping his husband’s arm and spattering crumbs across the gap between them, “she said we can call her Sharon.”

“Miss Laine,” Enjolras firmly repeats, “in sum, we have received notes home for the following reasons: twelve for ‘insubordinate behavior,’ five for arguing with a teacher—I presume that to be you—three for dress code violations, and one for ‘unacceptable homework.’” He looks at Sharon over the papers. “Can you define ‘unacceptable homework’ for me?”

“Covered in oil stains and flour.” It had been complete, sure, but entirely illegible. “I couldn’t accept it.”

“Of course it was covered in food, it was a fractions worksheet,” says R, exasperated. “How else is she supposed to do it?”

Raising her eyebrows, Sharon forces a clenched smile. “Using the methods we learned in class?”

“Well, _Sharon,_ Marie didn’t understand your methods. She tried the homework on her own, showed it to me, and it was entirely wrong.”

“Maybe if she paid more attention in class instead of arguing with her teac—”

“Or maybe if Marie’s teacher was interested in teaching multiple methods instead of only appealing to one way of thinking.” R gives a tight smile of his own before pulling a small glass skull from his pocket, twisting off the cap and taking a swig of clear liquid. Her eyes go wide and her mouth tightens at the fifth being drunk so casually in front of her where it is so expressly forbidden.

“Since you brought it up, though, let’s talk about these ‘arguments.’” The blond withdraws a crisp sheet from the stack. “Tell me about this one, Thursday 5 September. Some issue with lining up?”

Sharon brings herself back to the conversation at hand, tearing her eyes from the bottle as it disappears back into R’s pocket. Despite already remembering the incident, she finds the corresponding letter. “Yes, I asked boys to line up, then girls. Two students remained seated afterward, and when neither would line up Marie joined them at her desk.” 

The room is silent for a beat.

“…and?” prompts R through a mouthful of brownie. “Enj, you really have to try these brownies, they’re just divine.” Grabbing a tissue from the box at the corner of Sharon’s desk, he picks up a brownie from the rapidly-dwindling stack on his plate, offering it to his husband.

Enjolras wordlessly accepts it, continuing his intense stare at Sharon, who tries to remain resolute under the gaze.

“And she and the others remained seated.”

“Of course, you hadn’t called them yet, why would they stand?” Enjolras’s tone broaches no room for argument. “You only called boys and girls, anyone who doesn’t identify within that binary is left with no choice but to remain seated.”

“Marie had already aligned herself 'within that binary.'”

“And then she didn’t, and I don’t believe that that is your place to question. Now, did all of the students get a note home? And let me remind you that if they did get in trouble for not identifying themselves using an arbitrary identification system that they don’t fall within, that is prejudicial treatment.”

Her voice remains strong even as her resolution flags. “No, only Marie.”

“Because she wouldn’t line up?”

“Because she argued with her teacher.” Sharon’s coffee cup meets the desk firmly. 

R, who has been quiet since he passed the brownie to his husband, now points to his chest with a crooked smirk. “Critical thinking,” he stage-whispers.

“So you mean to tell me,” Enjolras begins, voice chilling and even, “that you were too flustered to hear what an eight year-old had to teach you about the gender spectrum?”

Sharon clenches her jaw, not trusting herself to speak. _Lawyer,_ she reminds herself. _He’s a lawyer._

“Now do we need to talk about the other instances? Or will they all boil down to the same insecurity we see here?” Her silent seething seems to be understood as its own response as he takes a large bite from his brownie, chewing at an interminably slow pace. Swallowing, he speaks up once more. “I believe that that also covers 'insubordinate behavior,' yes? Or do you have something to add about that as well?”

Sharon’s jaw is already aching from her clenched smile as she begrudgingly shakes her head. “No, I believe that’s about covered.”

“Great. Let’s talk dress code.” Despite Enjolras’s confidence, Sharon finds herself relaxing a little. This, at least, is a topic that she feels as if she has a foot to stand on. “I trust you have your copy of the revised Code of Conduct that we signed at the beginning of the year?”

The what?

“I’m sorry, ‘revised’?”

Enjolras nods, handing her a fresh sheet from his comprehensive stack. Sure enough, it is the Code of Conduct that Sharon had passed out on the first day of school to review with their parents and sign—yet even as Sharon skims through it, she identifies several small alterations.

“I will say that I respect the introduction to legal code and its ins and outs at such an early age, but Marie and I revised the Code of Conduct together and submitted it for your approval. She assured me that you signed it?”

Sharon vaguely remembers Marie approaching her one morning with her copy of the document, insisting that her papa had told her that Miss Laine must also sign it to make it binding. She had done so without thinking twice, adding it to the stack to be submitted to the office. Stomach twisting, she slowly nods.

“Then, according to the revised contract, you’ll understand and agree that Marie never violated the dress code.”

“And of course, this isn’t any problem, because only total creeps would feel distracted by the kneecaps of an eight year-old girl,” adds R through a mouthful of chips. “Right?”

“O-Of course. Right.” Oh God, she’ll have to talk with the principal about this. Signing a legally binding contract on behalf of the school…is the document even valid? She’s not sure. “Yes. No problems.”

“Awesome! So let’s have a look at those developmental observations!” R cheers, moving his nearly empty snack-plate to the side and pulling on a pair of golden rectangular wire-framed glasses.

Right. This is how most of the meetings went. She glances at her time-table. There was a free slot after Marie’s parents, so if they can finish in the next five minutes she’ll still be on-time. “Here’s the checklist for Marie’s physical development,” she says, sliding a paper across the desk between the two of them. “As you can see, her gross motor skills are right on-track for her age, but her fine motor skills…”

Picking up the paper, R squints at it. “You don’t think she can handle foods with a fork and knife?”

Sharon shrugs. “She eats exclusively finger foods for lunch.”

“Because she likes chicken nuggets and baby carrots. What are the other kids eating, steak cuts?”

“School lunches.”

“Sounds a lot like inherent bias in the system.” Before she can speak R cuts her off again. “And what’s this, writing endurance is lacking?”

“My observations indicate that she can only write for one minute at a time before stopping.”

“Because she’s eight, she gets distracted. Ever ask Marie to write about anything she enjoys writing about? I promise, if you asked her to write about the social patterns of moths she could write for twenty minutes without a peep. How do I know? It’s what she was doing with her Uncle Ferre while I was getting ready to come here.”

She’s trying not to allow herself to get flustered. “I…will investigate this further. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Also, I’d like to talk with you about getting Marie tested for a math learning disability.”

Smiling, she shakes her head. Every parent is suddenly an expert on disability indicators when their child gets a poor grade. “Mr. R—” 

“I know her scores are fine now, and that’s because I’m providing her with additional support at home—you already saw evidence of that on her homework—but I’m not that great at the higher-level stuff. I mean, I’m gay—"

“You’re bi,” counters Enjolras with a roll of his eyes.

“Queer,” compromises R. Sharon doesn’t really see what his sexuality has to do math. “And I can’t keep supporting Marie as she gets to the more advanced stuff. She needs to be learning coping mechanisms and how to advocate for herself and her accommodations as early as possible.”

“If nothing else, I can assure you of this: your daughter will never have any problem advocating for herself.” 

R and Enjolras exchange proud looks before turning back to her.

Sighing, Sharon continues. She did not sit through one hundred hours of disability-specific courses in undergrad to be patronized like this. “Testing for learning disabilities traditionally begins in third grade, and—”

“The standard test given requires that she score 40% behind her peers’ average, and by then it’s already too late for her to get caught up,” R insists. “If Marie is to receive the accommodations, modifications, and adaptations she requires to succeed further down the road, she needs to begin receiving services now, which means getting a learning disability diagnosis, which means taking the specialized assessment before her grades begin to suffer because of it.”

Sharon looks to Enjolras for help. Surely even he must see how unreasonable his husband is being. 

On the contrary, it would seem it is now his turn to be the parent reaching across the table for a handful of crisps. “Don’t look at me, he’s the one with the master’s in early childhood education.”

“Specialization in child development,” R adds with a smug grin. “So, we’ll look into that testing, yeah?”

“Um. Yes.” The words are bitter on her tongue. “Of course.”

“Great.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to share with us about Marie?” Enjolras asks genially. It feels like a trap.

“Uh—she—there.” _You can do this, Sharon._ “She attempted to stage a sit-in at lunch last Thursday. Apparently one student didn’t have enough lunch money and couldn’t afford his meal.”

Sighing, Enjolras reaches into his pocket and hands R a tenner.

“Told you, a rally is too complicated for the first marking period. That sort of thing takes preparation—third marking period, minimum.” R stands up to tuck the money into his back pocket as Enjolras huffs. “Sounds like she’s doing well, then. Any physical fighting this year?”

Sharon’s head jerks up in surprise. “Fighting? Goodness, no!” It’s the one thing that makes having Marie in her class manageable.

R nods. “Keep your eye out for it, please. We talked with her last year about defending people with her words and not her fists, but we’d appreciate it if we had an advocate in the classroom supporting that.”

Her head shakes vigorously in agreement. “Marie is a great student, she just needs to learn—”

“The serenity to accept the things she cannot change, the courage to change the things she can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” Enjolras interrupts.

“And at that, we will do our best,” R assures. Rising, he reaches his hand out over the table. “Thank you for meeting with us today.” 

Enjolras joins his husband. “Yes, we really appreciate it.” 

“It was lovely meeting both of you,” she lies, shaking their hands in turn.

They’re nearly out the door when Enjolras stops short, freezing the blood in her veins. “I’m sorry, just, before we go: R is down as the primary contact, correct?”

She looks down at her notes quickly. If he wasn’t before, he certainly is now: she will take R over his lawyer-husband any day. “He is, but I will make special note of it now.”

 _Reception may be unreliable in hell,_ she scrawls next to Enjolras’s name.

“Thank you, that means so much to us." R's tone oozes sweetness as he follows his husband out of the room.

When the door clicks shut this time, she stands, walking to where her phone is charging in the far corner of the classroom.

[14.17] **You:** laurie  
[14.17] **You:** how many more parents u got  
[14.18] **< 3 <3 <3:** 3 why  
[14.18] **You:** what r ur feelings on daydrinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but educators really are overworked and underpaid, so you really shouldn't do this at your conference unless your teacher is actually fully terrible.
> 
> All education structure described above is based on standard practice my homestate. Feel free to reach out with any questions!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the bit that took me basically a year to figure out what to do with, hahah. Enjoy!

“R, R, R, wake up!”

Groaning, Grantaire rubs a hand over his face. There are two days a year Enjolras is up before him, and it is not election day. “You realize the conference isn’t until the afternoon, right?”

His husband huffs, rolling his eyes and climbing over top of Grantaire to deposit a kiss to his temple. “We have to rehearse.”

“Is Marie even up yet?”

“All the more reason to start before she is!”

Slowly but surely Grantaire is waking up, and he pushes himself far enough upright to pull the blond in his lap into a long kiss, morning breath be damned. “Good morning, by the way.”

Enjolras seems momentarily dazed into silence before recalling his mission. “Come on, we’re only allotted fifteen minutes to make our impression, and as of yesterday we are still stuck at eighteen.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Grantaire as he pulls his husband closer, burying his face in the other man’s chest. “You could always show up on-time.”

“And deny me my dramatic entrance? I thought you loved me.”

—-

“Well that just felt mean,” Grantaire says as he exits the classroom. “Did you see her? She was trembling!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes dismissively. “She’s a TERF.”

“She’s better than Dan last year.”

“Mr. Kennedy thought Reagan was the last good president, the bar was pretty low.”

“R, Enj!” calls a voice from behind them. They turn expectantly to see Jehan in one of eir own hideous sweater creations next to Montparnasse who, of course, is wearing sunglasses indoors.

“Hey! How did things go?”

“Oh, just splendidly,” Jehan answers wistfully. “Deb’s mother and I are exchanging patterns and recipes this weekend, and Deb thinks I’m a witch.”

“You are a witch,” Montparnasse intercedes.

“I’m wiccan, there’s a difference,” Jehan corrects petulantly. “We heavily implied that Montparnasse is a vampire. I caught her checking garlic prices on her phone as we were leaving, and she wouldn’t let go of her rosary.”

“Is the betting pool still open on how long it’ll take before she realizes you’re not Gavroche’s parents?” Enjolras asks.

“Closed right before we entered the room, sorry,” answers Jehan gaily.

“And you all?” Montparnasse prompts.

“Mission accomplished: there is no way she’s calling me instead of R for any reason.”

Grantaire’s head shakes. “You get way too into this every year.” 

His husband scoffs. “You saw the way she looked at you when you drank your water, she thought she already had you fig—”

“She was perfectly within her rights to think—"

“—baseless accusation, you were drinking from a clear receptacle—”

“It was a repurposed vodka bottle!” Grantaire interjects. Enjolras grins gleefully.

“I’m confused,” Montparnasse says at last. “Far be it from me to discourage you from being intentionally difficult, but if the point is to get them not to call Enjolras, shouldn’t you at least make calling R seem…appealing?”

“Oh hell no.”

“No, that’s a terrible idea,” Enjolras continues.

“No,” repeats Grantaire. “No, definitely not.”

“As is, R is already going to get called into school at least once a month for perfectly inane bullshit. If we make it seem like he’s actually going to be cooperative? That’s a couple of times a week.”

“We made that mistake in kindergarten.” Grantaire shudders. “Never again. Second grade almost backfired, though. Teacher was a homophobe, so he never wanted to call either of us, the old bat. Principal ended up getting involved, and the argument that ensued between him and Enjolras…”

“We don’t get many phonecalls from the principal these days either,” Enjolras concludes.

Their discussion continues for another several minutes before they say their goodbyes and part ways, Jehan and Montparnasse for Azelma’s meeting and Grantaire and Enjolras for home. 

They’re back in the chill of the parking lot before Enjolras huffs. “I forgot to mention her bee allergy.”

“You forgot to mention her bee allergy,” Grantaire agrees.

“Why didn’t you remind me?”

“The nurse already has a note, and Marie knows her own body.”

“Yes, but—”

“You remember in university when your parents tried to bully the administration into telling them your grades?”

Enjolras frowns. “A blatant violation of FERPA.”

“Textbook helicopter parenting.”

“Exactly.” He pauses beside the vehicle. “Are you accusing me of helicopter parenting?”

“I have said no such thing,” Grantaire grins, clicking the doors unlocked.

His husband’s frown deepens. “I just want to give her everything.”

“Me too, but sometimes ‘everything’ also means giving Marie the chance to experience the world for herself.”

Quiet follows as they pile into the minivan, Enjolras’s lips pursed the way that they do when he’s thinking too hard about something. If he keeps this up he’s going to hurt himself. 

Grantaire leans over to press a kiss to the cheek closest to him.

“What was that for?”

“For being the best co-parent I could dream of.”

This time Enjolras’s lips purse the way they do when he’s scheming. “Does that mean we can still script next year’s conference?”

“I mean—”

“Mrs. Rogerson uses the clothespin behavior management system.”

His mouth sets: he really hates the clothespin behavior management system. “We’ll issue a cease and desist first.”

“And then we’ll strike?”

He shouldn’t be encouraging this, but Enjolras’s eyes are twinkling with that fervor that he gets before a rally or a really big case that he feels confident about, and Grantaire is weak. “And then we’ll strike.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please comment below or reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


End file.
